Andrews leaned on the balustrade of the balcony, looking down into the square in front of the Opera Comique. He was dizzy with the beauty of the music he had been hearing. He had a sense somewhere in the distances of his mind of the great rhythm of the sea. People chattered all about him on the wide, crowded balcony, but he was only conscious of the blue-grey mistiness of the night where the lights made patterns in green-gold and red-gold. And compelling his attention from everything else, the rhythm swept through him like sea waves.
“I thought you'd be here,” said Genevieve Rod in a quiet voice beside him.
Andrews felt strangely tongue-tied.
“It's nice to see you,” he blurted out, after looking at her silently for a moment.
“Of course you love Pelleas.”
“It is the first time I've heard it.”
“Why haven't you been to see us? It's two weeks.... We've been expecting you.”
“I didn't know...Oh, I'll certainly come. I don't know anyone at present I can talk music to.”
“You know me.”
“Anyone else, I should have said.”